A crowd was collected round the fellow, who was rapidly disposing of his stock. He could not pull her soul apart now to satisfy that queer absorbing, delving thing which was his literary curiosity; he had put her outside that circle. "Is this Jack Sheppard? Oh, la! I'm undone! We shall all have our throats cut! Oh! oh!" And she rushed, screaming, into the passage where she fell down in a fit. Her roving eagerness was at all times shaded with shyness, reserve, repression.
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